Abortive Gulf, a new novel by the Cmmdr. Chap. one

The bearded television actor scurried into the kitchen of his friend’s house in LA, where he had caged a few weeks of free board. In his arms were enough oats and oat products to supply Churchill Downs for a year.
“Stocking up on fiber?” asked the Cmmdr, his frumpy, tubby host.
“I like to eat right,” replied the Ensign.
The Cmmdr knew he had a point, his own diet consisting of bacon and cigarettes. But he refused to be intimidated.
“I eat healthy,” countered the troll-like man.
The Ensign chortled. “Yea, and They Crawl put me over the top.”
The Cmmdr grabbed some rice pudding from the fridge, sat down, and opened the L. A. Times. On the front page of the Calendar section, a photo of David Straithern stared up at the two little men. It was 10 AM and Burbank was already a furnace. The phone hadn’t rung in two days. Visiting a gun shop didn’t seem out of the question.
“Straithern is supposed to be pretty good in this new flick,” said the Cmmdr.
“’Flick’?” mocked the Ensign. “What are you, part of the Beat Generation?” He stuffed some edamame down his throat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so pretentious,” the Cmmdr apologised sarcastically. “Movie.”
“Fuck Straithern,” said the Ensign.
“A lot of women have.”
“And I’ve fucked a lot of the women who have fucked him.”
“Is that why you’re so fucked now?” asked the Cmmdr, grabbing an errant soy bean.
“I’m going into the garage,” muttered the Ensign.
“It says here they’ve located an agent in Yemen that you haven’t signed with,” the Cmmdr said, reading the paper.
“I’ll be in the garage.” The Ensign started to leave, desperately fondling his cell phone like some totem, when the Cmmdr’s landline rang.
The Cmmdr picked up. “Hello? Great. That’s great. Give him my best. Bye.”
“Who was that?” asked the Ensign.
“’L’il’ Buddy.”
“And?”
“He wanted to tell me someone from the play he’s doing at Licoln Center said to say hi to me, “ replied the Cmmdr. At that, the phone rang again.
“Hello,” the Cmmdr said. “Cool. That’s great! Yes, I am happy for you. Bye.” The Cmmdr hung up. “It was Cabin Boy; Mary Poppins is sold out through 2010.”
“Wow,” said the Ensign, in a tiny voice. And then the phone rang yet again.
“Yes?” the Cmmdr said. “Sure, that’s a good idea. Bye.”
“Who was that?” asked the Ensign.
‘The Spoiler’s assistant,” replied the Cmmdr. “He wanted me to know the Spoiler has changed his name to Jesus Brando.”

(to be con't)